


Tuesday

by orphan_account



Series: 7 Days in a Week [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 21:47:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tuesdays are the one day that England wishes he had his own room at Russia's house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuesday

Tuesdays were much calmer than Mondays, all the stress and strain gone from the air of the house, even with the Baltics. On Tuesdays, none of the countries in the Russian's home had a care in the world. On Tuesday mornings, England would wake still feeling sore but definitely healed, with strong arms keeping him close. Sometimes he'd be so tightly pressed that he could feel each dip and curve of of muscle, each raised bit of scar. More than once, he'd been caught absently tracing those dips, listening to the steady breaths over his head, watching the rise and fall of a pale chest. There was never any danger on Tuesday mornings so he was free to do this.

When the sun started to rise higher and higher into the sky, the Briton would kiss along the largest scar on the Russian's body. It started just beneath his heart and made a diagonal slash to his hip. It was the one that signified the death of the Romanov line, over a century ago. The scar was one of the more sensitive ones and one of the only ways to prematurely wake the large nation up. Russia's eyes would crack open and he'd groan as he rolled over and childishly buried his head beneath a pillow. England loved this Russia, this child trapped in a man's body, who protested to every move to move that pillow, who laughed and flailed and kicked when tickled. Latvia would always find them in the middle of one of these tickle fights and he'd relax, knowing that Russia was taken care of and that England was smiling. They wouldn't stop until they were both breathless and smiling and cold from the blankets being kicked off.

Lithuania would bring them breakfast once he was told that they were both awake and cuddled beneath the blankets again. There were some mornings where Lithuania would actually join them, the three of them playfully pushing at each other or sneaking stickier pieces onto another's cheeks and seeing how long it would go unnoticed. Latvia and Estonia would watch these scenes like a movie while they ate their own breakfasts, making bets with sweets on who would notice what first or who would fall off the bed last. Latvia was especially skilled at telling this.

Tuesdays were lazy days, where Russia would turn on the Television, (which England thought took much longer than it should have because Russia would always look at England with large puppy dog eyes and beg him to say "telly". He loved the way the word sounded with the foreign accent. All England was reminded of was the girls that would crowd around him in bars if he ever went to one when he went to America, which he usually did every night he was there.), and they'd watch reruns of old shows or laugh at how some of the information on the History Channel was completely inaccurate. They were never interrupted--Lithuania would busy himself with chores or shopping, Estonia and Latvia would either help or busy themselves playing around--and they left the bed only for the bathroom or for a snack.

At some time during the day, be it around noon before they changed to the History channel or midnight before they went to sleep, England would look up at the Russian, looking over each feature of his face: how his amethyst eyes would glisten with happy tears if he'd be laughing too hard; how his lips would be gently curved when they were settled down and his arm was wrapped protectively around England's shoulders and how teeth would be showing when he truly thought something was funny, even if he didn't laugh. Russia always caught the Briton looking at him from the corner of his eye and he'd turn suddenly to give a chaste kiss. He'd wind up laughing and having to pull away because the British nation would always be so shocked at the suddenness gentility after what happened yesterday and his expression was just too hilarious.

England would smack him on the arm and try to get him to stop laughing but he'd be blushing and all of it just made him laugh harder. In the end, they'd both be laughing.

When their lazy day was done, Russia would pull England as close as he could, with his back against his own chest, and bury his face against the back of his neck. The Brit would blush again, and remain that way until he felt the light puffs of breaths against his skin. The sensation was calming, oddly enough. He'd settle in the strong arms, gently shifting to reach a hand up and softly grip one of Russia's hands. He never said it at first, but the more months that passed and the more weeks that these seven days occurred, on Tuesday nights, with his eyes closed and his fingers interlocked with Russia's, England would whisper a soft, "I love you, you know..." He did. It was strange to think about but he did.

He just wished he didn't snore so loudly when he was sleeping right by his ear.


End file.
